


Spin Cycle

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Christmas, College Jonerys, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fetus Assholes, Jon and Dany are both assholes, Jonerys Advent - Day 17, Jonerys Advent 2020, Laundry adventures, Minor Drug Use, Modern AU, Modern-Day Westeros, dorm room sex, i mean kinda, shitty notes, the Starks suck, what do you want it's a christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28132521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: When Jon decides to stay on-campus for Christmas, he's looking forward to having the dorm building to himself.  Well, mostly.  But a shitty note and frozen clothes lead him down an unexpected path to a relatively Merry Christmas.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 40
Kudos: 474





	Spin Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas Fic #1! The note that inspried this is in the moodboard made by the LOVELY AND TALENTED MAGALI DRAGON!
> 
> Wishing you and your families and loved ones the very happiest of holidays.
> 
> May 2021 be better than this dumpster fire of a year!

* * *

**_Jon_ **

Fucking Christmas.

Jon hates it. Everyone is annoying as shit, and his father’s wife is a bitch the entire time he’s home on break, and so this year, he just isn’t going. That’s just how it’s going to be, and when he’d told his dad that he was going to stay on campus for Winter Break, he expected more of an argument.

At least a little pushback.

But Ned had just said he understood, and he hoped to see Jon for Spring Break, and honestly Jon thinks it cut just a little deeper that the man didn’t even give token pushback to Jon’s adamant declaration.

Well, fuck them, too. Fuck his dad, and fuck his dad’s bitch of a wife. Cat has always hated Jon, always hated that Jon was born first, that she’d been forced to take on raising him after his mom died, leaving Ned a widower with a two-year-old.

Jon knows it isn’t his fault, but Cat’s always tried to make it his, anyway.

Maybe Santa will swing by and shove some coal up her ass, Christmas morning. Jon hopes Santa is smart enough to remove the giant stick currently lodged there.

The only good thing about this time of year is how quickly campus is emptying. He’s in his senior year, one semester away from graduation, now, and he’s just counting down the days at this point.

To cut down on costs Jon became an RA his junior year, and in exchange for babysitting a bunch of freshman and sophomore assholes who can’t live alone their first two years, he gets discounted tuition and free room and board.

It always sounds great on paper, but the reality is so much worse. A bunch of crybabies, all of them, constantly whining over who stole whose soap or shower flip flops or ramen cups. But slowly, Jon’s little pack of baby assholes has trickled away for Christmas, and now he’s the only person left on the fourth floor.

Jon grins to himself as he packs up his laundry bag. It’s the rare event, when the washer and dryer are completely free, and he’s going to take full advantage. He will wash EVERYTHING, and maybe twice, because this is almost luxurious, all this quiet and breathing room and having the building essentially to himself.

He sticks in his earbuds and turns on some music, anything but Christmas Carols, pulling up one of his workout playlists instead and whistling along with the tune as he takes his dirty clothes to the very end of the long, linoleum-lined hall, to where the lone appliances sit.

Jon doesn’t realize until his hand makes contact with the washer, and feels the telltale vibrations of the barrel inside spinning, that someone’s beat him to it.

“Fuck!” He rips out his headphones and just stands, furious, nearly spitting as he stares down the offending load of clothes, still cunningly concealed inside the white metal box. “What the fuck?”

He knows his hall is empty. He knows it, for a fucking fact, knows the last departure was that little dickhole Joffrey Baratheon, because Jon remembers cheering when that turd left the building. So who in all Seven Hells was still here, on his floor, using his washer and dryer?

“No.” Even though he is alone, he utters the word with complete conviction. “Not today.”

He steps up to the machine, lifting the lid, noting the contents had made it to the spin cycle already and were clinging to the edges of the tub inside when he peeked.

“Try again later,” he whispers to the clothes, as he pulls out wet handfuls and plops them down onto the folding table that sits along the wall beside the dryer. He cackles to himself, because they deserve much worse than a delay until drying, this usurper of laundry facilities, and he’s letting them off lucky by just setting their things aside. “Next time wait with your things, you fucking idiot.”

He loads his clothes into the dryer and grabs for his jug of detergent, measuring the blue liquid out into the cup and pouring it in, starting the machine up again from the start after feeding in a few quarters.

Jon had planned ahead and brought a book, and so he posts himself up in the hard, molded plastic chair tucked into the corner, finding his spot and beginning to read as he reopens his playlist and picks a new song.

Ten minutes in he eyes the pile of wet clothes still on the table. Tops, yoga pants, sports bras, an ocean of socks; The offender, he decides, is an odd-floor inhabitant. This dorm, like several at the University of Riverrun, is co-ed, but only as far as the building itself is concerned. It’s still grouped by sex for each floor, with men on the second and fourth, and women on the first, third, and fifth.

His phone rings before he can delve any further into his suspicions on the suspect, and when he sees that it’s Robb he knows he has to take it. As he suspects, Robb is extremely pissed that Jon isn’t coming back to Winterfell, this year, and he’s secretly glad that at least someone is, even as he sounds put-upon and gives his half-brother an ocean of excuses for why he can’t make it.

Then he remembers that the gift card he got Robb is still in his room, and he leaves his clothes, just for a minute, he swears to himself, to run down to his dresser and send Robb a photo of the front and back so he can use it even if he doesn’t have it physically. It won’t take long at all, then he’ll shove his clothes into the dryer and give his comforter the washing it so dearly needs.

\-------------

**_Dany_ **

She thinks the building is empty.

In fact, she’s like 99% sure it is.

The third floor is like a ghost town, at least, but someone decided to be a smart ass and lock the laundry room door from the inside and someone else stole the only set of keys, so her dream of finishing up all her workout washing before the end of the day looks bleak.

Until she remembers that each floor here has the same room, down at the end of the hall, and with Christmas Break finally upon them, she’s got her pick of machines. It’s for this reason that she’s completely unworried about leaving a load alone, so that she can run down to the convenience store the next block over and get herself some cheap gas station eggnog to cap off her shitty Christmas.

Dany takes the stairs up one floor, once she returns and stows away her purchases, a few more than she intended. She’s a little late, and knows the load is likely done, but she hasn’t seen another soul since the stampede for the parking lot that morning. Nothing to worry about.

She steps into the laundry room, finding it quiet as the machine has, of course, stopped awhile ago, and checks her messages as she absently lifts the washer lid.

And then she curses, because these are not her fucking clothes.

First off, she actually wears colors, and save for a few scattered pairs of blue socks, or the gray undershirt, all plastered to the sides of the drum, everything else is black. “What in the actual fuck?”

There isn’t anyone around to hear her, but someone is, and for the first time she notices the damp bundle of clothes that have been shoved down to the end of the table, almost hidden by a white, collapsible mesh laundry bag that’s been tossed on top of them. _HER_ clothes.

She sees red for a second, because what kind of asshole does this? They couldn’t even put her clothes in the dryer? She wasn’t even gone that long. It hadn’t even been a godsdamned _HOUR_.

Dany tries to remember all the deep breathing exercises her mother’s therapist used to insist on, but she can’t. She can only focus on the anger that is coursing through her veins, and with a dark glare at the contents of the washer, she decides what she will do. Methodically, she removes every single damp article, noting when several sets of black boxer briefs are discovered that it is a male asshole who has committed this heinous act.

She’s a senior, and this is her second year as an RA, but her first at this dorm. And in this dorm, on the third floor, she estimates there are at least 12 assholes of the female variety, and not dealing with that bullshit will be the highlight of her solo Christmas.

Now, however, is this bullshit to deal with, and she takes his own laundry bag and loads all his wet clothes into it. She takes a second to put her own clothes in the dryer and starts the machine, the loud hum enough to confirm that her things will most certainly be dry in thirty minutes.

But, she thinks with an evil grin, deciding to take the small elevator down to the double doors that lead out of the building and into the snowy grass and stone plaza outside, his clothes are in for a bit of a bumpy ride.

With a flourish, despite the lack of witnesses, she tosses his clothes out into the snow, knowing that in an hour, if they are undiscovered, they’ll be frozen stiff.

“Exactly what he fucking deserves,” she says under her breath, laying the bag on top of a heap of joggers and wiping her hands in satisfaction.

Just one more thing to do.

\-------------

**_Jon_ **

Jon feels exhausted by the time he gets Robb off the damn phone, nearly a full hour of his bitching and complaining about being surrounded by the familiar Winterfell crowd enough to make Jon think 4:00 p.m. on the Saturday before Christmas is the perfect time to hit the whiskey he’s got stashed under the microwave.

But first, laundry.

He takes his time heading back down the hall, scratching at his stomach through his black t-shirt, wondering what he is going to do for dinner as he opens the door to the laundry room.

There are several things wrong, immediately.

The dryer is running. It’s a laundry room, yes, so that’s not so odd, but he knows he didn’t turn it on, knows he’s been stuck on the phone with Robb this whole time.

“Son of a bitch,” he growls out, as he realizes that the clothes he’d removed earlier are nowhere to be seen. He opens the dryer and sure enough, the Sock Queen has a rainbow of colors tumbling around. Okay, he thinks. Fine. Whatever. As long as his shit is where he left it, he doesn’t care that he got snaked on the dryer. Her load was nearly done anyway, by the looks of the timer.

What he cares very fucking deeply about is the note taped to the lid of the washer, which he notices and then reads with rising fury before throwing open the lid.

_To: The person who stopped the washer in the middle of my wash cycle and took my clothes out just to wash yours…_

_YEAH, YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE_

_Unfortunately for you, so am I. You can find your wet clothes frozen outside in the snow. Any problems? Come see me in 301._

Jon stares into the washer tub, just needing to confirm for his eyes what his gut told him - that note isn’t fucking joking.

Empty.

Fucking empty.

A quick glance shows him his bag is also gone.

“That bitch,” he whispers, because 301 means it’s going to be war against Daenerys Fucking Targaryen, the snobby blonde that is the current RA for the floor beneath his. He’s only seen her in passing, but he’s always thought the same thing - hot, but definitely a frigid little ice queen.

She would definitely do something like this.

This was how she wanted to play? Fine. He’ll see if she’s still smug when he’s done gathering his shit from some fucking snow drift and gives her a piece of his godsdamn mind.

Fucking Daenerys.

He repeats the incrimination, over and over, wishing he’d stopped to put on pants before he ventured out into the snow in shorts and a t-shirt, but it’s not as cold as he’s been before, so he just white knuckles it, thankful he has his fury to keep him warm.

When he races back into the building, he heads up to his room, and changes, and on a whim stops to brush his teeth and wash his face. No need to let her know she got to him by looking like a fucking mess when he confronts her.

Jon stares down at his folding back, full of his ice-crusted hoodie and shirts and everything else he’d managed to shove in, and grinds his jaw.

Just who did Daenerys Targaryen think she was, anyway?

He grabs the basket and marches down the hall, spine stiff and straight, ready to tell her exactly what he thinks of her and her shitty little note. He’s stuck that just on top of his frozen clothes, and it’s fluttering with the speed he’s using to approach her room.

Gods, how obnoxious she truly is, he thinks as he sees the overly-decorated exterior of her door. There’s a big blocky ‘D’ covered in some sort of dragon design, and a messy collection of meeting notices and inspirational quotes that make him roll his eyes.

He knocks, squaring up, ready to tell her where to shove her clothes and her note, when she opens the door.

Fuck. Holy fucking shit. He’s furious, yes, of course he is, he doesn’t think he’s ever been angrier at another person in his life, family excluded.

The problem, he is now finding, is that he’s forgotten how hot she actually is. Or maybe he’s just never seen her head-on like this. He’s definitely never seen her in so little, just a pair of tiny black shorts that might as well be underwear and a strappy white tank top that he can see her white lacy bra through. 

For a minute there is just silence, because he can’t get his fucking tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. But then, thankfully, he sees the pink plastic basket of clothes sitting on the end of her bed, the very clothes she must have just gotten from the dryer, and he manages to slow the rush of blood from his head to other regions.

He raises the bag, eyes narrowing into slits when she sees the note and the frozen clothes and giggles. “You do this?”

She arches a brow, strands of her messy bun tumbling around her head as she peeks over her shoulder towards the same basket Jon has spied. Then she looks back at him and smirks. “Guess so.” Then she crosses her arms across her chest and leans a hip against the door frame. “Is there a problem? I assume that’s why you’re here.” She flicks a finger against the note. “As per my instructions.”

He huffs out an aggravated breath. “Yeah, I got your shitty note.”

Now her eyes are narrowing, her full, luscious mouth tightening, those lips that he’d would love to slip his tongue across pressing together and godsdamnit he needed to get a fucking grip. Hotness really didn’t fucking matter in this situation. It really only made him angrier; She was no doubt the sort of girl who was used to getting her way and never facing any consequences for her actions.

Well, not today, even if his anger was ebbing away slowly and being replaced by the urge to rip off everything she was wearing and fuck her ‘til they were both sore.

“Do shitty things,” she said airily, stepping back as though dismissing him, “Get shitty notes.” With the smuggest smile he’s ever seen, she grabs the door, ready to close it in his face. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

Her eyes widen when his palm stops the door, the wood smacking loudly against his skin. “Hang on.” For a moment he thinks he’s frightened her, but there’s something happening in the air between them, like static building up and charging, and he sees her nostrils flare slightly, her pink tongue sneaking out to wet her lips.

Then, to his astonishment, she steps back, and opens the door more widely, and gestures for him to come in.

When she closes it behind him, she leans against it, and doesn’t say a word, just waits.

“I’m not leaving until I get an apology.” He keeps his voice firm but neutral, trying hard to hang on to his anger, but it’s slipping away from him, more and more, aided by the way she’s now eyeing him.

She smiles at him, slowly, deliberately, then pushes off from the door. “Then I guess you’ll be waiting awhile,” she murmurs as she passes, and he smells her, this alluring mixture of spice and flowers he doubts he knows the name of, but it’s like it’s trapped in his mind now, and he needs to have more of it. “In the meantime,” she continues, oblivious to his inner turmoil, “would you like some of my contraband?”

It’s so out of left field, and he’s so distracted, that for a moment he can’t understand what she’s asking him. But then he peers at the open drawer she’s standing beside, at the baggie of what he’s certain are weed gummies clenched in her hand. “Oh.” He shrugs, because why fucking not? The day hasn’t been weird enough yet, right? Five minutes ago he was certain Daenerys was his mortal enemy, but now, he isn’t sure what he thinks. He’s still pissed, but nothing is clear anymore. “I guess.” But he thinks twice, and follows himself up, pointing a finger at her. “But I’m still fucking pissed at you.”

She gives him a scornful laugh and rolls her eyes, and it’s irritating enough that he manages to stare at her tits for just a few seconds before he grudgingly takes the sugar-crusted gummy she’s holding out to him. “And?” She cocks her head as he chews. Ugh. Watermelon. He hates watermelon.

“I hate watermelon.”

Her brow wrinkles, and it’s really cute, and that’s such a fucking shame, all this hotness wasted on such a crap person. “No, I meant, and you’re pissed? Cool, me too, asshole.” She pops a green gummy into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “How’s this, I’ll apologize when you do?”

Jon scoffs and shakes his head. “No way. What do I need to apologize for? Did I leave your shit out on the freezing cold? Your wet clothes? Which then froze?” He jerks his thumb towards her laundry basket and her clearly dry clothes. “Nope, here yours are all dry and fine, no harm done.” He gestures angrily to his slowly-thawing clothes. “Look what you did to mine! And you want me to apologize? Absolutely not.”

That finally breaks her little ice shell, and suddenly she comes alive before him, and she’s all fire and fury, and he thinks he gets the whole dragon thing. “No, you hang on, asshole. You left my shit wet in a massive lump. I’m glad I caught it before it fucking soured. The nice thing to do would have been putting it in the dryer like a decent human being. So, the way I see it, someone had to teach you a lesson.”

He doesn’t know what to make of it when she steps right into his space, her bare toes brushing against his shoes, and there’s that smell again, that smell of her, and he really wants to lean in closer, and let his nose bury itself in her hair. He refrains, just barely, and only because she’s such a self-righteous shithead. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.” When he growls the word out her face just gets redder, her chest beginning to heave, and that’s a major distraction, too.

Focus, Jon. Don’t let her off the fucking hook because she’s hot. His mental coaching is just enough, and he maintains his scowl and stands his ground, not backing off an inch as she shifts close enough that the curves of her tits just brush against his t-shirt.

Focus.

“Oh, I’m not kidding at all.” She bites at her lower lip, leaning in closer, peering up at him from under her lashes. “So I guess we’ll both be waiting awhile for an apology, won’t we?”

Jon isn’t going to fall for the innocent little glances and the grazing touches. He knows what she’s doing, but she isn’t going to get away with it. He shifts in, instead, his head dropping so that their eyes are almost even, their noses less than an inch from touching. “We could be trapped in this bloody room for a thousand years, Daenerys, and I’d still never apologize.”

Jon is instantly confused, because he expects her to be angry. He wants her to be angry, as angry as she must have been before, as angry as she was when she wrote that stupid note. But Daenerys doesn’t look angry. The look on her face is one he’s seen before, sure, but rage it’s not.

She reaches up, and he guesses she means to touch his jaw, but he catches her wrist between his fingers. “What are you doing?”

Daenerys Targaryen stares into his eyes so long he thinks he might’ve thought that instead of saying it, but then she smiles, a feral and ravenous thing, and he can’t believe it but he thinks they’re about to fuck.

“A thousand years is a long time to wait, Jon Snow. How should we occupy ourselves until then?” She tests him, her hand approaching again, but this time he doesn’t stop her, because he’s curious.

Horny and curious.

And more of both than he was angry, maybe not before, but definitely now. He ought to be ashamed, he knows, being cowed by the tiny hot blonde, but he’s seen several pornos that start like this, and he’d be an idiot to pass up the chance that’s presented itself.

He can be pissed at her again after he comes.

Her fingers are warm, and she runs them lightly across his cheek before following a tendon down his neck, stopping when she reaches the notch in his collarbone and he offers a roughly-whispered suggestion. “I’m sure we could argue some more. Kill a few hours.”

“We could,” she says, unbearably coy, her index finger drawing a line between his pectorals. “But I think there’s something I’d enjoy more. I mean, if we’re gonna get all worked up, shouldn’t it be doing something a little more,” she lifts her eyes to his, her pupils fat and black, her lips plump and parted, “rewarding?”

Jon’s mouth is suddenly dry, as he drops his eyes to her chest, not bothering to hide his perusal from there. She’s fucking perfect, all curves and valleys and planes, and his hands are itching to touch her, everywhere, but he hasn’t forgotten about everything that’s happened. There’s still an outside chance that she’s playing him, just fucking around to get his hopes up and then kick him out the moment he goes for it, so he takes his right hand and skims it down her back, until he reaches the spot just above where the swell of her ass begins.

He pulls her into him, with some force, until they’re completely flush, and when her eyes widen he knows she’s now very much aware of what he’d like to do with their newfound time. “Oh aye,” he rasps out, and now that she’s so close there’s nothing to stop him from dropping his nose to her neck and taking in the scent of her fully. “I can think of a few things.”

It’s like he’s said some magic word, because she’s done teasing, when she hears his response, and steps back, her hands shoving hard at his shoulders.

He realizes, as he falls back, that she’s pushing him on to her bed.

“Cool,” he says under his breath, and then he can’t speak at all, because she’s taking off her clothes like they’re on fire, like she can’t escape them quickly enough.

He stops her when she’s down to the white lacy bra he’d glimpsed and a matching pair of tiny bikini panties. “C’mere.” He crooks a finger and she comes, and she’s moaning the minute he touches her skin again, his fingers slipping beneath the straps of the bra and sliding them down her shoulders. He makes short work of the clasp in the back, and she lets out an appreciative laugh that turns quickly into a low, heated whine when he rids her of the bra completely and her breasts are in his hands.

\-------------

**_Dany_ **

Jon Snow can go fuck himself, as far as she’s concerned.

But as long as he’s here, big palms molding to her tits like they were made to hold them, she’ll fuck him first.

Arguing has always made her a little horny, sure. But Gods, not like this. She’d been wet moments after he’d barged in, all jerking, harsh movements and muscles and a really hot ass. That they are alone, essentially, in this big building, certainly with this floor to themselves, seals the deal for her.

She can be as loud as she wants, and she hums out a low, pleased noise when the laundry asshole dips his head and wraps his lips around her nipple.

She can’t stand him, but she thinks she’s going to enjoy this, gasping into his mouth when he returns his face to hers, kissing her hard, angrily. She returns that fervor with her own, and soon they are clawing at each other mindlessly. Dany grips his shirt and pulls, hard, biting his lips the moment he rids himself of it and tugs her back to his body. They both groan when her nipples are pressing into his chest, and she feels his fingers brush just under the little shorts she’d slipped into.

“Get them off,” she growls against his mouth, then slicks her tongue against his as he obeys. He frantically drags the stretchy fabric down her thighs as far as he can reach before he breaks away from kissing her. She steps out of the shorts quickly, left only in a white lacy thong, her eyes flying to where his cock strains against his shorts while he takes a moment to devour her with his eyes.

Then he grabs her ass, hard, and lifts her, and she yelps when the cold, painted cinderblock wall meets her bare back.

Now she’s sure she’ll enjoy this, and she pushes her back harder into the wall, for support, so that they can each slip a hand between their bodies. Between the two of them they manage to free his cock, and she lets out a hungry moan at the sight of it.

Jon Snow’s laundry room etiquette fucking sucks but maybe he has some redeeming qualities.

He’s got one hand holding on to her ass, the other wrapping around his hard, flushed length, rubbing the head deliberately against the wetness that has escaped her pitiful excuse for panties. She mewls and twists, but when his grip slips she tries to still herself. It seems impossible, because even with the thin lace in the way she can feel the smooth, rounded head of him tapping against her clit, and she feels like she’s on fire, every inch of her body.

“Condom?” He grunts it out, but she understands, and jerks her head towards the small, cheap, pressed-wood night table beside her school-issue twin bed.

Her mattress isn’t usually all that comfortable, but it’s less frigid than the wall, and Jon Snow presses her against it in seconds, gripping her thigh and keeping her legs wrapped around him while he roots around in the drawer and makes short work of slipping on the condom.

Then she bites her lip, hard, and throws her head back, because he’s up on his knees and the tip of him is just shy of where she wants him, stopped just shy of being inside her, and his thumb is slipping just against her clit, gathering moisture and spreading it, beginning to work her into a frenzy. 

“Ready?” He doesn’t even sound like a man anymore, more guttural and animal, and it stokes the same in her. She bucks her hips in response and lets out a broken cry as he strokes into her with one smooth, hard snap of his hips.

“Fuck,” he moans, his eyes closing tight, drawing the word out until it’s close to unrecognizable.

“Please,” she cries, and it’s echoing around the room, and she doesn’t care at all. There’s no one to hear and she needs this, Gods, she needs it like her next breath. His head drops to her neck, mouthing there, gripping with his teeth in quick bites that he begins to scatter across her upper chest. “Gods, Jon, fuck me,” she mumbles, everything starting to spin as he begins to thrust into her with quick, shallow strokes. He works her clit all the while, and it’s good, it’s so fucking good, but she wants more, wants him to fuck her harder, deeper.

She manages to tell him this, in a broken series of desperate whispers, and it’s like he is a man unleashed. He hauls her legs from around his waist and up over his shoulders, nearly bending her in half as he starts to fuck her with the abandon she craved. He’s big and for a few moments there is a sharp pinch of pain, but it ebbs and reforms into a cresting pleasure that has her capable of little more than high, keening cries.

She comes, and comes, and comes, and he just keeps fucking her, milking each clenching wave as it rolls through her, his hips hammering against hers as she breaks apart beneath him.

He comes just after she does, in ragged harsh gasps of her name and a collection of gibberish that she assumes are curses. It’s hard to tell with his accent, sometimes.

He’s still above her, the legs now hooked behind her knees by his elbows, and his breath is hot on her dry lips. They stare at each other quietly, as they come down, and finally he backs away, his softening cock leaving her cunt, and slips into her tiny, but thankfully private, bathroom. It is the one thing about being an RA that had made her sign up to do it next semester as well - the private bathroom. An oasis in a sea of assholes.

Except for the one who was currently in hers and had made her come so hard her eyes watered and her thighs had turned to mush.

When he returns he does not look at her, at first, dressing himself quickly and grabbing that note she’d left from the top of his laundry bag. He holds it up, then, dark eyes finding hers, his face impossible to read as he jabs a finger at it. “Still a shitty thing to do.”

She lets out a hard breath and stands, straightening the lace of her underwear where he’d shoved it aside to fuck her. She lifts her chin and goes to stand before him, smirking when his eyes stray to her breasts involuntarily. “Why don’t we just say we each could’ve made better decisions, and be done with it?”

He scowls at her, but just as she thinks he’s going to tell her to fuck off his brows shoot up, and he smiles, smugly. “You just want to fuck again.”

Dany arches a brow, a hand on her hip, her eyes checking down towards his groin then back up to his face. “Of course.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say, for a second, but he recovers quickly, nodding then beginning to grin. “Cool by me,” he says airily, then grabs his bag of clothes. “Looks like we’ve got a week to kill with no one here but us.” He stops at her door, his back to the hall, and his teeth flash with his parting smile. “Oh, and, uh, any problems? Come see me in 401.”

She flips him off and he laughs and disappears.

Maybe Christmas break would be salvageable after all.

\--------------

_**Jon** _

He wakes up Christmas morning to a face full of sweet-smelling hair.

It’s a pretty new development, at least this many days in a row, so for a minute he just lays there, his hand heavy on the curve of her hip, their bodies pressed tightly together on his narrow twin bed. They’ve been considering pushing in a bed from storage, two if they’re feeling daring. Jon’s calling the idea ‘mega-bed’, and Dany has responded each time with ‘mega-stupid’, but he thinks he might be on to something.

Then he hears it again, and his small smile falls away when he raises his chiming phone and blinks blearily at the screen.

It’s Robb, with six more texts, all pictures from Christmas morning at Winterfell, all captioned with reasons he is ‘missing out, big time’. He stiffens and moves to sit up, and it’s enough to wake up the world’s most beautiful asshole. She’s really cute when she wakes up, and it aggravates her when he says it, so he does.

Just like he has every morning they’ve woken up together.

A whole week, now, but so far, so good.

“Oh my god, look at you,” he says tauntingly as she rubs a hand over her eyes and tries to focus on the direction his voice is coming from. “So fucking cute. You wake up like a baby kitten.”

“Shut up,” she whispers tiredly, her vision clearing, her eyes sharpening on him when she looks between his face and his phone. “Something up?”

Dany already knows the story of why he’s here this break, so he just opens his text messages back up and watches her eyes narrow further and further as she goes through the messages Robb has sent him.

Then, her jaw set and determined, she grabs a half-eaten candy cane from her bedside table and climbs into his lap, completely naked and deliciously warm in his hands. She doesn’t look happy, though, just focused, and she hands him his phone back as she straddles his thighs more securely.

“Take a selfie,” she orders, “and make sure I’m in it. Crop my ass out, though.”

Jon complies, curious, and takes the picture, so focused on getting them centered that he doesn’t see what she’s done until he’s staring at his phone screen in slack-jawed awe.

He sees himself, with a shit-eating grin, bare-chested. Not all that scandalous, really.

It’s Dany, on his lap, her back to the camera, her head turned to peek at the camera, eyes demure and shy while her mouth is anything but. She’s got the end of the candy cane stuck between those sinful lips of hers, and it’s enough to make him harden under her right now, because he knows what else she’s slipped between her lips over the past few days, and he would definitely like to do that again.

She smiles at him, then the pic, and plucks his phone from his hands, and before he knows it he hears the telltale sound of a message being sent.

Dany winks at him and hands him his phone back, then grinds her hips down on his, against his growing erection.

He’s going to fuck her, soon, he’s learned how eagerly his body responds to hers, but he allows himself a few more seconds to read the message Dany sent his half-brother, one that will no doubt make the rounds in every group chat the uptight fuckers had.

There’s the picture he’s just taken, along with a few words just below:

_Merry Christmas, bitch!_

He laughs, and tosses the phone on the floor near the clothes he shed the previous night. On a whim he grabs the Santa hat she’d decided she just had to wear the night before while she rode his cock, and sticks it on his head as she begins to work the sheet away from his body.

“Have you been a good girl this year?”

She bites her lip shyly and blinks up at him. “I’m not sure, Santa. But I think you have a present for me.”

Her hand on his cock while his phone begins to let out a chorus of steady ‘dings’ is really all he needs to think that maybe, just maybe, he’s figured out how to catch some of that fucking holiday spirit after all.

“Come sit on my lap,” he whispers against her neck, “and we’ll see what Santa can do.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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